


Immediate Aftermath

by JadeRachelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Reaction to the Fall
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:00:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRachelle/pseuds/JadeRachelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each chapter is simply about how how each character dealt with the immediate news of Sherlock's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anthea Always Knows

**Author's Note:**

> I actually randomly stumbled across a prompt on the LJ BBC Sherlock Promot Meme and thought it was quite a nice idea just to play around with.
> 
> The chapters will be short. This is just to pass time while I lay in bed before sleeping.

She knows what happened, knows not to talk about it, not to ask questions. But she also knows Mycroft Holmes better than he thinks. She knows that he has spent last night awake, drinking brandy until the wee hours of the morning. She knows that he had no sleep, instead sitting at his dining table. She knows he has seen the headlines of the Sun and Telegraph, the news reports and rumours. She knows he has been as stoic as possible about the entire event and she knows that it is only a matter of time.

She knows that her boss did love his brother despite his flaws and disobedience and all the quarrelling. She knows that behind the carefully constructed mask of cold indifference and professionalism, Mycroft Holmes is mourning the loss of his little brother.

This is how she knows, when Mycroft shakes off his overcoat and leans his umbrella against the wall coming back from the Diogenes Club, that he has broken. She can see the sharp line of his spine, a little stiffer than usual and the way his hair is immaculately combed, the faint aroma of Brylcreem mixing with his cologne, perhaps applied a little heavily today. She can see the start of shadows under his eyes, the way he has shaved so delicately and made sure his tie is completely straight. These would go unnoticed if she didn't know him.

He is trying hard to look as casual and regular as usual but is going to far. He probably thinks he's getting away with the façade, fooling his employees and peers into thinking he is handling this perfectly.

But Anthea knows. She knows you don't have to be a Holmes to be able to make deductions.

"Anything pressing?" he asks as he unnecessarily straightens his tie and turns to her. She shakes her head. No, nothing. There's nothing and even if there was, she would beg and plead for it to be referred to someone else. Her boss will not be able to handle it. Not right now.

As he nods and walks past her briskly, she sees the shine in his eyes, the slight redness around the waterline and the sheen of pink around his nose from the blood vessels and she knows. Her heart tightens as though someone were squeezing it. She knows Mycroft and not once has he shown any emotion other than mild annoyance or exasperation. This is more than she expected and it hurts to see her boss so affected but she bites her tongue. She knows that it would do no good to raise the issue of his brother, not now, not so early.

"I'll bring you a glass of iced water," she says as Mycroft turns into his office. His steps falter and shoulders stiffen. She knows he can see the reasoning behind the gesture. He nods without looking back, not saying a word as he steps into the furnished room.

She knows what he needs and how to help. She knows the best thing is to ignore the evidence to avoid messy conversation and irritation of the wound. She knows that Mycroft is suffering, has cracked and cried. She always knows.


	2. A Good Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's reaction to the Fall.

There's nothing for him to do now. It's all been sorted, dealt with by other officers while he sat slumped at his desk is disbelief.  
  
The call-in hadn't been to Lestrade or his team. Dimmock had taken it with a quick glance at Lestrade. Useless though. With the eye witnesses, the call to John's phone and Molly being on duty, there had been no doubt whatsoever about it being a suicide.  
All because someone on his own team had planted that tiny idea, that spark of doubt that had flared into accusations and defences and become the headline of a news scandal. All because they doubted the man.

Now Greg Lestrade is not an amateur. He has seen deaths; some accidental, some intentional, some gruesome, some self inflicted but never has he experienced a weight like this. Never has he had to be snapped out of his daze of disbelief and told to leave the office. Never has he found himself so numb, sitting outside his house in his car not sure how he got home. Never has he, since his going straight, sat at his table with a bottle of bourbon in his hand and no recollection of how he obtained it. Never has he been so affected, never has he lost a friend like this. Not like this.

He sits and stares at the bottle, mind blank and body emptied of energy. The house is quiet without his wife - well, ex wife now, and children. There is nothing but the occasional rumble as a car drives past on the street outside. He simply sits, unthinking, unfeeling, unaware of the time that passes by so silently. He has no idea where to start, what to do, how to deal with this event. He is aware that he is empty, unfeeling, and knows that this will not last forever. It will come soon, the emotions.

It is not until he blinks, eyes already adjusted to the lack of light around him, that he feels it come on. The grief. The feeling of loss. The realisation that Sherlock really is gone. He pushes the bottle away from him, disgusted with himself. Sherlock would be so disappointed if he fell that far again. What was it the detective used to say? Sentiment, with that eye roll and sneer, nothing but a hindrance. What would he think if he saw Lestrade take to the liquor again, driven by loss and pure sentiment. Staring at the bottle in distaste he feels his throat constrict. Does it really matter if he starts drinking again? There's no one to notice or care now that Sherlock's gone. He can feel the muscles in his throat and jaw clench, tightening reflexively as the urge to sob rises.

He raises his hands to his face, elbows resting on the table surface as he blocks out what little light is left around him as the sun sets. His shoulders shake and he clenches his teeth and closes his eyes. All he can think of is 'here it comes...'

Within seconds his body is trembling, the palms of his hands pushing against his closed eyes as tears stream down, salty and warm against his parted lips as he cries. He didn't just lose a peer, a help, a detective today. He has lost a friend, someone he has known for years and who has helped in so many ways, furthered Lestrade's career with no expectation of reward and cleared up so many messes. He has lost an important figure, a great man and he can feel himself break, alone in the dark as he sobs and lets himself cry.


	3. He's Not Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan waits for Anderson, needing someone to talk to about the ordeal.

"Right... I'm off." Sally calls limply as she grabs her leather jacket from the back of her chair and flicks off her computer monitor. It's been a long day. A long week, really. From the missing kids to the drama with that freak, all of the explaining to the boss and then to top it all off... The detective's suicide. It's been draining in so many ways and all she wants is to go to the pub, have a pint and shack up with the head of the forensic team to relieve the stress.

She pulls on her jacket and makes a lazy wave at the few officers and staff still working, throwing a knowing glance at Anderson who is handing over files to a sargent. She will see him later at their usual meeting place at a little out of the way pub off the A40. She smiles to herself as she slips into her car and heads off to the pub, knowing that no matter how bad work got she still has these meetings to look forward to. She knows it's wrong, that he's married, that she is the 'other' woman but she also knows that she has never felt like this about anyone. She's just waiting, waiting for him to leave his wife and come to her. 

She needs him.

Tonight she needs him more than anything. A heavy feeling of guilt has settled low in her stomach. The moment she heard of Sherlock's suicide a feeling had come over her, one of regret and doubt. Guilt had eaten at her all day, leaving her wondering if she could have prevented a death if she had only kept her theory to herself. She had tried to tell herself that it was the right thing to do, that she did what was appropriate by voicing her misapprehension but in the end, it had taken a life. And not a life of a stranger but instead the life of, if she were pushed to label him, a strangely unconventional colleague.

After all of this she needs to discuss her guilt with the only other person who shared her ideas, the only man she can rely on for support and affection.  
Sally reaches the pub, sitting in the corner at their usual table, orders a pint and pulls out her phone. A quick text to let him know that she's waiting.

And wait she does.

Half an hour and she assumes he's being held back at work. Forty minutes and she sends off another text with no reply. An hour and she tried to call him but it rings out. At an hour and fifteen she runs a hand through her hair with a sigh, shoulders slumped forward as the guilt that has been bubbling up inside begins to fester and grow. Not only has she had a hand in the end of Sherlock's life, she realises that she has also, in a different manner, ruined another man's life. Another family's life. Her eyes begin to prickle as realisation washes over her and she wordlessly orders another drink. 

Anderson is not coming tonight. 

He will likely never come to Sally again, not after the guilt caused by the detective's suicide came crashing down, amplifying the guilt that lay between them caused by the infidelity of their actions.

Sally feels her eyes water and covers her mouth with her hand, vision blurring as tears well and threaten to fall. This isn't just about the apparent ending of the relationship with the man she loves, this is about the guilt that is making her stomach churn and the urge to speak to someone who will understand the situation.

She chokes back a sob as her world comes crumbling down around her, alone in a pub as her lover leaves her to return to his wife, the immense feeling of regret for her earlier actions pounding through her and the settled guilt regarding the suicide of an brilliant man. She realises a little too late that she could have been wrong. Her mistakes have torn apart lives and now hers is following suit.


End file.
